


A case of identities

by marysutherland



Series: Harry/Molly sequence [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Updated version of Arthur Conan Doyle's "A Case of Identity"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes always complains that I just blog about the cases of his that involve a lot of running around, and that I never give details of his analytical processes. With this one, however, there’s loads of analysis, and absolutely no running around or violence. Unfortunately, even though I’ve changed some of the names, I still don’t think it’s appropriate to publish it at the moment. So it’s sitting here on file as a reminder for me, in case it ever is feasible to do so.

It was a Tuesday morning in November, and I was looking out of the window, trying to work out how many layers I needed on before going to the supermarket, when I spotted the woman. Middle-aged, smartly dressed, and standing across the street, looking apprehensively at the door of 221B. I turned to Sherlock, who was engaged in carefully sharpening our meat cleaver – with steely intent, you might say. (Sorry! I will cut that line if this is ever published).

“I think the Jehovah’s Witnesses are calling again,” I said. “So for goodness sake, put that away. And if you do insist she comes in, can you keep it brief, please? Some of us don’t appreciate theology as a combat sport.”

Sherlock came and stood by the window. “Right age and sex, wrong social class for a door to door evangelist. And besides, missionaries normally go around in pairs, so if one has a spiritual crisis, the other one can kill them before it spreads. She’s a client. The hesitation is because the case involves an embarrassing personal matter, presumably sexual. But she’s not angry, she’s confused or sad.”

“Were you expecting someone?” I asked. “Because if so, the meat cleaver is probably not a good move.” I knew it didn’t have many traces of human remains on it, because I’d carefully sterilized it myself last night, but I was still irrationally worried that someone might look at it and guess that Sherlock had recently been hacking off a corpse’s hands. (It’s not what it sounds like, honestly!)

Then a sudden thought occurred, and I looked at the figure outside more closely, just to check it really was a harmless middle-aged woman and not an assassin.

“You haven’t been putting our address on your website again, have you?” I asked. I thought I’d broken him of that after the goat faeces incident (don’t ask!) But perhaps he’d decided once again that we weren’t currently a sufficient target for London’s criminals.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “which makes it particularly interesting. If she really can’t make up her mind, you need to go down and invite her in. Ah, no, she’s coming.”

Ninety seconds to make the flat look presentable for a client. I removed the meat cleaver and the skull to the kitchen, and told Sherlock to hide the articles on the sex life of bats that he is prone to leave lying around. Then I set off downstairs for the door, before I had Mrs Hudson complaining that she was our landlady, not our receptionist.

Up close, the woman was largish, about my height and rather overweight, but pleasant looking: bright brown eyes, long tawny hair, and I suspected, a nice smile, when she wasn’t so nervous. I greeted her with what I hoped was a soothing expression, introduced myself, and then took her upstairs and offered her coffee. (I know my role when there’s a client around). But I made sure that I had the kitchen door almost, but not quite closed, so she couldn’t see anything disturbing, but I could hear what was going on, in case I was needed for the purposes of either reassurance or violence. (Sherlock had recently shown me a website which recommended receiving female clients with ‘easy courtesy’, and I lived in dread that he might attempt this).

“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr Holmes,” the woman said. “I didn’t feel it was something I could phone or e-mail about, but I was told if I came to see you, you might be able to help.”

“If you could start by telling me your name, that would be helpful,” said Sherlock. “Your real name, please. It wastes time if I have to work it out.”

I didn’t need to see him to know that he was giving her one of his peculiarly detailed but abstracted stares, and I hoped he wasn’t alarming her too much.

“Martha Caithness,” she said. (Well actually, she didn’t say that, but that’s what I’m calling her for the purposes of this post).

“And you’re off to work at the moment? How long do you have to spare?”

“I’m not due in till 2 pm. I work at King’s College London.”

My ears pricked up – that’s Harry’s college. (Harry’s my sister, not my brother). But neither the name nor the face rang any bells. It’s a big university, after all.

“Yes, but you’re not at the Chancery Lane library, are you?” said Sherlock easily. “Is it the Franklin-Wilkins building, or Guy’s or St Thomas’, or have you got to go right out to the Maudsley?”

“I’m at the Waterloo campus. But how did you know I’m a librarian?” Ms Caithness replied, sounding slightly rueful. “Do I look like one?”

“Other than the shoes, no. But the plastic bag lurking within your main bag, and which presumably holds your packed lunch - no, food for your evening break at about 6 pm - is advertising the PsycInfo database. Too smartly dressed to be a student or a demonstrator, and neither a student nor a lecturer is likely to say they ‘work at’ KCL. It’s a rather trivial deduction.”

Fortunately the coffee was ready by then, because it’s at this point that clients often start to worry about Sherlock. I brought the mugs in, plus a plate of biscuits, then pulled over a spare chair and sat down opposite Ms Caithness, making a surreptitious check that we had a box of tissues handy as well. (That’s one of my other roles in client interviews, administering TLC as required).

“Can you tell us about your problem?” said Sherlock, steepling his fingers.

“I, I need you to find someone for me,” Ms Caithness said. “Someone who’s gone missing.”

“Who’s that?” Sherlock said. His voice was gentle. Sometimes, he can be very good with clients, and this seemed to be one of his good days.

“My, my, er, ...we’ve just become engaged.” She was so nervous I could barely hear her.

“Can you tell me _her_ name, please?”

There was a shocked silence and then she burst out: “You know? Did Dr Watson tell you about me?”

I spluttered into my coffee, and then realised who she was talking about.

“Harry, Harriet Watson, you mean?” said Sherlock. I’m sorry, it’s very confusing there being two Dr Watsons. John here’s the useful kind of doctor, a GP. Harry told me something, but only in the most general terms. You’ve come out relatively recently?”

“Just over a year ago. People have been very understanding...mostly. And I really thought with Angela that it was the start of something new, exciting.”

I expected tears at that point, but librarians are obviously tougher than they look.

“You fiancée’s name is Angela?” said Sherlock.

“Angela Hosma. She’s Indonesian, a waitress. She-“

“Before you tell me about her,” Sherlock broke in, “can you tell me a bit about yourself? It helps get a feel for the case.”

“I’m afraid my life has been very dull. I still live in the house in Hadley Wood I was brought up in, and my father was brought up in as well. My father and my grandfather were both accountants, my mother was a music teacher, but I’m afraid I don’t have much talent for either figures or music. I studied English at Bedford College, and then trained in librarianship at UCL. I’ve worked as an academic librarian ever since. I’m an ‘information specialist’ now, what they used to call a subject librarian. I prefer to stick at that level. I don’t really enjoy the management side of things, and the senior staff don’t really get to meet the users at all.”

I’d expected to see Sherlock get impatient with her rambling, but instead he was listening with the greatest concentration.

“And your...personal life?” he said. “You are an only child, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been married or in a long-term relationship, either before or after your coming out?”

“No,” she said, blushing, and she played nervously with the buttons of her jacket. “I never really hit it off with boys when I was younger. I suppose I understand why, now. I was just on my own for a very long time. Well, not actually on my own. It’s a big house, you see, so after my parents died, I took in lodgers. Students from King’s, and occasionally elsewhere. Not that I really need the money, I live very simply, but for a bit of company. And they take Izzy, that’s my dog, for a walk when I’m working, and it’s just nice having some young people around, makes me forget I’m a boring, middle-aged spinster.”

“So you’ve had quite a quiet life for many years? Or at least unchanging?”

“I’m afraid I’m living up to all your stereotypes of librarians, aren’t I?”

“I’m sure you get a lot of pleasure from your activities. Are you still able to row? No, it’s cycling you’re into, isn’t it?”

“I used to row, but that was years ago. But, yes, I’m still a keen cyclist, though a little out of condition now.”

I should have spotted that, I thought, though it’s harder when you’ve been brought up not to stare at a woman’s legs. But I could see now that the bulk of her thighs, beneath her slightly too tight skirt, was muscle rather than fat. I just hoped she didn’t ask-

“So how did you know that, Mr Holmes? Surely Harry didn’t give that much detail about me?”

 _Oh help_ , I thought. (Well, that’s the cleaned-up version). This was going to get embarrassing.

“Your tan is fading fast, but the pattern from wearing cycling gloves is still distinctive,” Sherlock said smoothly.

“You...you can really work out things like that?”

“That’s simple. But I presume you didn’t meet Ms Hosma while out cycling?”

“No, I don’t think my angel would go for that.”

“Your angel?” I said.

“That’s what I called her, my angel, because that was her username on the website. Angel103.”

I groaned inwardly. She’d met her on the internet. Of course she had. No wonder it had all gone horribly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Caithness' fiancée has disappeared, but Sherlock may have the answer.

Years ago, you met someone at a gas fitters’ ball, or the PG Wodehouse Appreciation society, or at least the house of a friend of a friend of a friend, and you had some idea who they were. Now, Sherlock has a file a foot thick of dodgy internet romances. (Well, it’d be a foot thick if he printed it out. It’s probably a few dozen megabites of data, but it sounds less impressive. He has a lot, anyhow).

I looked at Sherlock when Ms Caithness said about the website, and he gave me one of those ‘stop thinking so loudly, you’re disturbing me’ glares, so I dropped my eyes and tried not to distract him. I’m rather good at distracting him nowadays.

“You met her via an internet dating site, did you?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I’ve never done that kind of thing,” Ms Caithness replied. “And I’ve never really got into the scene. I, I came out first when I met one of my old students again, I mean someone who lodged with me years ago. We’d always kept in contact, and she was back in the UK, and...I suppose I realised I had been attracted to her for a long time, I just hadn’t understood in what way. But it didn’t work out, unfortunately, we weren’t very...compatible. We only went out for a couple of months, but we stayed friends, after that, at least, sort of.”

“So were you looking for someone after your first relationship ended?”

“Not really. I met Angela via a women’s fiction forum. We got talking about classic authors, she wanted some recommendations, hadn’t really read much. And then a month or two later, she was asking if I’d read Radclyffe Hall’s _The Well of Loneliness_ , so we started discussing lesbian fiction, and then we started sending each other e-mails more generally, just talking about books, and art and things like that.”

“What did she tell you about herself?”

“She was a bit reluctant to say anything at first, said she felt embarrassed talking about herself. But I gathered that she was based in London, youngish, liked films and paintings, but perhaps didn’t know that much about them. But when we got to know each other better, I finally persuaded her to tell me more.”

“What did she say?” said Sherlock. I could almost see his mind clicking through the possibilities, working out the routes to take through the conversation, the way he can race through the streets of London and always know exactly where to go.

“That her name was Angela Hosma. She’s of Indonesian ancestry, though she’s lived in London all her life. Obviously bright, but she wasn’t allowed to go to university, but expected to work in her parents’ restaurant instead.”

“Did she say much about Indonesia?”

“Not much, she’s hardly ever been there, doesn’t really feel connected to it. She’s very westernised in most ways.”

“So you were e-mailing one another for a while?”

“Yes, and then instant messaging. We’d chat at weekends, it was a lovely way of unwinding. I’d come home on a Friday night, and know my angel would be waiting to talk to me. We really, we were so compatible, despite all the obvious differences. And I thought, I hoped, there might be something more. So I asked her to meet me.”

“How did she react to that?” Sherlock asked. His voice was casual, his glance wasn’t. He’d once told me that 87% of romance scams were online only.

“She said she’d like to, it was just a bit difficult,” Miss Caithness said. She had a sad little smile on her good-humoured face. “She didn’t talk much about her parents, but there were plainly problems. I suspect it was bad enough that she was interested in a woman, let alone a white woman. So we always used to meet in public places, go to the cinema sometimes, art galleries.”

“When you met her, did she seem the same as when you chatted to her online? You talked about the same sort of things?”

“Oh yes. She was just as I’d imagined her when I’d talked to her online.” So no ringer had been used, I thought.

“You say you went to art galleries. Any one in particular?” Sherlock asked. I couldn’t see where this line of questioning was going.

“Tate Modern mostly. I preferred the National Gallery, but I think Angela was a bit intimidated by that.”

“Did you go to the cafe at the Tate, the riverside one?”

“Once, I think. It was very nice.”

“What was the service like? I always find it slow.”

“I can’t say I remember.” There was a slightly vacuous expression on Martha Caithness’ face now. “Angela didn’t really like eating out, we tended to get sandwiches. I think she didn’t have much money.”

“Did you pay for her when you went out?” Sherlock asked. I could see where he was heading now.

“No, she insisted we went fifty-fifty. I think she was quite embarrassed about being poor. Maybe that was why she never wanted to come back with me to ‘Viewfield’, my house. It’s ridiculous really, that I have this huge place.”

“So you went out on dates with her for a few months,” said Sherlock calmly. “What happened then?”

She hesitated.

“Please,” said Sherlock, with the fake sympathetic earnestness that convinces you he cares, rather than the jerky awkwardness when he actually does. “I need to know the details. It may be crucial to tracing Ms Hosma.”

“I, I thought maybe we should take things to a more...serious level,” Martha Caithness said slowly, “so I suggested we got engaged.”

“You wanted to become closer, express your feelings for her more deeply.”

“Yes. Angela, she was quite a shy girl in some ways. I think her background. And of course, when you’re always out somewhere, never at home...We’d kiss sometimes, and I think she enjoyed that, but she...” Her voice trailed away.

“She was uncomfortable with further intimacies?”

“She was used to being covered up,” said Ms Caithness. “I don’t mean...I don’t think she’s really that devout, she’d eat smoky bacon flavoured crisps, but she did wear a headscarf. I wondered if it was to please her parents. She wore western clothing otherwise, she had a lovely figure, tall, slender, not like me. She ‘d look just like a western girl, tight jeans, trainers, T-shirt, long-sleeved T-shirt, but also the hijab.”

“But her face was uncovered?”

“Yes, it was just her hair was covered. Except once. I’d been asking her to show me her hair, it sounds silly, but I wanted to see it, see more of her. And I said surely it wasn’t against her religion to let another woman see it. So she took off her scarf, and she had this gorgeous blue-black hair, very glossy, cut quite short. But she said she felt naked without the scarf, put it back on a few minutes later.”

“Did you hope, when you became engaged, that the...physical aspect might develop?”

“I must admit...but I didn’t want to rush her. I wasn’t sure if she’d been with a woman before, like that, I mean.”

“Was she happy with the engagement? It was your suggestion, you were saying.”

“She was a bit surprised, but then very pleased. She said she knew then that I really loved her, that I cared. But...”

“But what?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, understanding. Angela was already married, I thought, or had a sick brother desperately needing expensive medical treatment. Sherlock had probably figured out the details quarter of an hour ago.

“She was worried about her family.” Here it came.

“In what way?”

“That they’d disapprove of this. She told me that they might try and stop the engagement, break it off in some way. But she said she wasn’t going to let them, she would be true to me whatever happened, and she begged me to be true to her.”

“Did she mention any more specific worries?”

“No,” Martha Caithness said. “The last time I saw her, three weeks ago, she was very cheerful. Hoped she might be able to get more time off, it’s always complex arranging meetings because we both sometimes work shifts. We agreed to meet on Tuesday morning, the 2nd, but she never turned up. She isn’t answering her phone or e-mails, or anything. I’m worried about her, Mr Holmes, but when I went to the police, they weren’t interested. I didn’t know what to do.”

“She gave no sign that she might be going to disappear? And you’ve heard nothing indirectly, from friends or relatives of hers?”

“No, I’ve never been in contact with any of them. We, we were keeping it secret, you see.”

“And, you’ll pardon me asking, there hadn’t been any change in your relationship since the engagement? Did she have any worries, money worries in particular?”

“No, she never said anything like that.” The police asked about that as well. But you mustn’t think she’s gone off with my money, or anything like that, Mr Holmes. My angel never accepted a penny from me.”

I’d have choked on my coffee at that point, if I’d still been drinking it. It had seemed so obvious that I had wondered why Sherlock was interested in the case.

“I see,” said Sherlock, and suddenly I knew he did. He paused and then went on: “You contacted each other by e-mail and presumably mobile phone. Do you have an address for her, or her parents’ restaurant?”

“She didn’t want to tell me that, in case her parents found out.”

“And again, it’s an awkward question to ask, but are you sure her name is Angela Hosma?”

“I, it’s what she told me. I don’t...you hardly ask someone you’re going on a date with to produce your passport, do you?” There was something noble in her faith in her fiancée. (Or possibly stupid, it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes).

“But she paid for things by cash, rather than credit card?”

“We never bought anything expensive. As I said, I think she’s quite poor. But she wasn’t after my money, Mr Holmes, she can’t have been, could she? I just...even if she never comes back I want to know what’s happened to my angel.”

“Do you have a photo of her?” Sherlock asked. It’s the question an ordinary detective would ask right at the start. I suspected he hardly needed to ask it.

“A rather bad one, on my phone, the camera’s not very good. She’s tallish, about my height, slender, very nice figure, as I said. Beautiful eyes, lovely deep brown. And her hair, of course, that amazing black. Do you think she’s OK, Mr Holmes, or has something happened to her?”

“If a serious crime has been committed, the police will have heard about it,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll talk to them, discreetly, of course.” (I’d like to hear Sherlock talk discreetly to a police officer. So would a lot of them).

“That would be a comfort. So what should I do now?”

“If you let me download the photo from your mobile,” said Sherlock, “that’s the first stage. Then the next thing is for us to come out to your house in Hadley Wood.”

“Is that necessary? I don’t really want my neighbours or...other people to know about this.”

“We’ll say we’ve come to look at the house, might want to do a feature about it for a home interiors magazine,” Sherlock replied.

“But why do you need to come?”

“I want to check your computer, look at the e-mails you’ve been getting, could get a lot of data from that. And it’s always vital to visit the crime scene.”

“But nothing happened at the house, Angela never came there.”

“Even so,” said Sherlock, “I think we might pick up some clues. What time would be convenient for you?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been very patiently hearing about Martha Caithness' dodgy fiancée, so he's well overdue for getting dismissive about other people's brains...

Once Martha Caithness had gone, I turned to Sherlock, who was sitting there silently, with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and gazing up at the ceiling, as if planning how to destroy it in some new and inventive way.

 “Do you think Angela or whatever her name is really is in danger?” I asked.

“Martha Caithness doesn't think so. If she did, she'd be beating down the door of the police, wouldn't she, not just being fobbed off? She really thinks that Ms Hosma has dumped her, but she wants to find out for sure. But does that explanation strike you as plausible, from what you know?”

For once Sherlock was tactful enough not to say: 'from your extensive experience of being dumped by women'.

“At this point in the relationship, no, not without saying anything. A woman, most women would want to explain why they'd have enough of you. Or at least say it was over. Besides, the whole thing stinks.”

“Correct, but can you explain why?”

“Do you really want my opinion?” I asked. (Normally he only asks me about cases when he hasn’t got a police officer handy to sneer at).

“Yes I do,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair languidly. “I need a feel for how obvious the warning signs are.”

“Thank you.”

“I don't mean it like that. Martha Caithness is naive, but I don't think she's stupid. So if it’s a scam, why didn't she recognise it? And if it isn't a scam, what is it about it that stinks, as you so eloquently put it?”

“The whole not giving an address, only meeting in public, at irregular intervals, says Angela's not her real identity. Besides, she said she'd been in London all her life, but I'm not sure there were many Indonesian restaurants in London even twenty years ago, when I was a student here. They certainly weren't common.”

“You are coming along, aren’t you?” said Sherlock, grinning. “You’re really doing very well indeed. I will follow up the restaurant angle, just as a precaution, but I think it's unlikely she's told the truth about that. So, is it a scam, and if so, what kind?”

“There's no money involved, which is the strange bit. Angela wasn't even getting meals out from it, it sounds like. So was she after a passport? Do you get one with a civil partnership?”

“You might be able to get a visa, but even that’s not automatic. And in that case why break it off before the marriage?”

“Cold feet about it? Or she's an illegal immigrant and she got caught?”

“She'd have been allowed to send some messages at least if she was picked up by the police or the Border Agency,” Sherlock said. “And wandering round Tate Britain hardly speaks of someone in thrall to criminal gangs. What else can we deduce from the course of the relationship?”

“It's not an organised scheme,” I said with sudden conviction. “We've met them once or twice before, haven't we? And I remember you saying they select the right target and then they move it along, get their victim softened up to do whatever they want them to do. But picking up lesbians from a women' book forum, I don't see you're going to make a lot of money from that. And it wasn't Angela taking the initiative with the relationship, it was Martha Caithness. In fact, I'd have thought the 'nothing but kissing' would have put most people off, let alone the Muslim angle.”

“So what are we left with?” Sherlock asked.

“Something I don't have a good answer for,” I said. (There’s no use trying to conceal your ignorance when you’re around Sherlock). ”Which reminds me. How the hell did you know that Martha Caithness was gay? I know you haven't been talking to Harry. Was it just a lucky guess or can you now tell a lesbian by her thumbs, as well as her underwear drawer?”

“John, is it worth my while explaining the perfectly obvious to you, because your brain is 90% cotton wool?” Sherlock asked. He had his eyes shut by now, as if my look of confusion was just too much to bear. Or as if he’d got very little sleep the previous night. (Which is true, but irrelevant to this case).

“Yes,” I replied, as I picked up the coffee mugs, “because you get off on gloating at your superiority to me, and you want me to know it wasn't just a guess.”

“She comes here, so she's been given our address by someone,” Sherlock rattled out, “she hasn't got it from the police, she might have friends among the library staff at Barts, but they wouldn't know it. She's not a contact of Mrs Hudson, or she would have greeted her as she came in, and she's very unlikely to be one of Mycroft's. She is at the same college as your sister, who is therefore the most likely source of that information.”

“KCL's a big place,” I pointed out.

“Yes, and she can't know your sister that well, or she'd have mentioned her name. But not just a casual acquaintance, because you wouldn't start talking to someone like that about a missing fiancée. So, how do she and Harry know one another? Not in the same department, not even on the same site.”

“Harry might have asked her for help with library stuff?”

“Wrong subject, and while your sister has many weaknesses, she doesn't need anybody else's help searching databases, does she? Besides, I suspect Harry's thirst for strange knowledge would lie more in the field of medical sciences or abnormal psychology, and those libraries are on different campuses.”

That sounded plausible. Harry is a social historian, in theory, but the things that interest her are sometimes beyond belief. She's the only person I know who can come up with more warped conversations than Sherlock. And when they get together, it's more awful than you can imagine. They once spent nearly an hour arguing about whether you should describe penguins as 'gay'. Harry threw a dictionary at Sherlock at one point. Which of course, hit me instead, because her coordination is lousy.

“So, how else might they have met?” Sherlock went on. (He regards these extended conversations as training me in logical thought. I regard them as rubbing it in).

“Ms Caithness could have come to one of Harry's talks?” I suggested. “She quite often gives public lectures at King's and I believe some of them are fairly popular.”

No, I knew they were popular. For a woman who can barely stand the sight of blood, Harry has the most amazing way of producing gory historical anecdotes that linger in your mind for days afterwards, even when you wish they wouldn't. (Her stories about hangings have got even worse since she's been with Molly, though it's still definitely worth it for her staying sober).

“If someone heard Harry lecturing,” Sherlock asked, “would they conclude she was the right person to confide in about their love life?”

“Only if it involved transvestites, petty larceny, or murder. No, once you've heard her lecturing, you might realise she's sympathetic and unshockable, but you'd also know she ultimately regards everyone as just source material.”

“So what's the other likely explanation for their meeting? Harry isn't one for socialising, but she is heavily involved in the LGBT support network at King's, isn't she?”

“Oh, I see, and someone, Ms Caithness, might well come along to that and ask for advice, and get your address via that.”

“Exactly,” said Sherlock. ”Besides, a woman in her forties getting engaged? That's unusual, speaks of making a very particular statement about a new commitment, perhaps a new type of commitment.”

“Hence the deduction that she had only recently come out?” He’s good, he’s just so good, that he sometimes still staggers me.

“A guess, but worth asking to confirm.”

“I see. So the next thing is going to inspect the house?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “I need your help for that. You can make Thursday morning, can’t you?”

“I can rearrange things. But why are we going to the house? You don't actually need to see her computer to look at the e-mails, you could just have her forward them to us, couldn't you?”

“Surely you've realised by now that the house is the key to the whole business? Think about it, John,” Sherlock replied. I said nothing. “No, rather harder than that,” he added.

“Can't you give me a clue?”

“You have all the clues you need already. Besides,” Sherlock said, “it's just possible that I might be wrong, and I don't want to prejudice your observations.”

***

I spend a surprising amount of my time nowadays pretending to be a journalist of some kind, with Sherlock often accompanying me as a photographer. (I rashly asked him once why it was that way round, and got told: ‘Because you’re good at standing around smiling and asking banal questions, and I look like a man with visual flair.’) ‘Viewfield’ didn’t have a view of fields anymore, but it was still impressive, a big chunk of a Victorian house, or possibly Edwardian. No interiors magazine would go for it, but you could have fitted 221b into it several times over. Inside it was cluttered, full of huge old mahogany furniture, and with the look of somewhere where nothing had been thrown away since the 1930s. I wondered if that was the key to it, why Sherlock had come. It was the kind of place where you could imagine finding a long lost something or other that would get the Antiques Roadshow swooning: an Art Deco coal scuttle or a Victorian watercolour worth half a million. But it couldn’t be that surely, when Angela had never been here?

Martha Caithness took us up to her study, which I immediately coveted, and left us to have a look at her PC. Sherlock spent about five minutes flicking through her e-mail correspondence with Angela, and then looked at me.

“Much as I expected, but there’s one interesting fact. The IP address from which Angela’s e-mails were sent is the same as her own one.”

“So that means that the e-mails were sent from this computer, or at least this house,” I said.

Sherlock gave me a look that clearly suggested I shouldn’t be allowed to use a mouse without close supervision.

“Or,” I added, “that someone knows enough to be able to fake the IP address, which rules some of us out as culprits.”

Sherlock sighed, switched off the computer, and went to ask Martha Caithness for a tour of the house. In every room he took a few quick snaps with his camera. I had no idea what he was after, but he clearly had some plan, so I tagged along and made polite conversation to Ms Caithness.

“And then up on the second floor,” she said, once she’d shown us around upstairs, “are the rooms where my lodgers live. It’s the old servants’ quarters, but actually, they’re surprisingly spacious, and I’ve put a bathroom up there, and a little kitchen. One or two students moan a bit about all the stairs, but I always tell them it keeps them fit.”

“Can we have a look up there?” asked Sherlock.

“Well, not their bedrooms, obviously, but the other rooms, yes. I hope it’s not too messy. Colin’s very good, but Rosie is rather careless about things.”

There wasn’t much to see: the kitchen was small, but well-equipped, and the bathroom seemed to be mostly full of bright bottles to make you and your hair more gorgeous in various ways. Sherlock took a few more snaps and then said: “It would help greatly if we could look in the students’ bedrooms just for a moment. One minute in each.”

“I really don’t like to intrude on their privacy. Besides, they have locks on the doors.”

“But you have spare keys?”

“Yes, downstairs, but-“

“One minute, thirty seconds, you can watch me the whole time. But I want some photos, and I particularly want to work out what you can see from the windows. And what someone outside might be able to see looking in.”

“I suppose if it’s really necessary,” she said. “If you hold on, I’ll go and get the keys. “ She set off down the stairs. I looked at Sherlock.

“We’ve got two minutes, maybe three,” I said, “what do you need to do, and can I help?”

“I need to wait for Ms Caithness to return with the keys. And if you really want to help, you could rearrange the jars in the spice rack in alphabetical order, their current arrangement is irritating me.”

  


[Part 4](http://marysutherland.livejournal.com/12920.html)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the trail of the missing Angela Hosma, Sherlock and John are now visiting the non-crime scene: Martha Caithness' house in Hadley Wood.

“This is Colin’s room,” Ms Caithness said, as she opened the left-hand door. Sherlock went in and started whirling around, taking more photos and peering out of the window. I looked round blankly, hoping to spot something large and clue-like.  It was rather neater than your average student bedroom, but otherwise typical, a lot of theatre posters on one wall, a big bookcase on another, filled to the ceiling with books.

“He is naughty about putting posters on the wall,” said Ms Caithness. “I have told him, but he does keep on doing it. If he ever moves out, the room’s going to need a bit of repainting. But he’s a lovely boy otherwise, very helpful.”

“Right,” I said. I knew I ought to be asking penetrating questions, but if I ever have any success with witnesses (which isn’t often), it’s by letting them talk and talk and talk till they say something revealing, and hoping that either I can remember everything they say, or that Sherlock hasn’t lost interest and wandered off before then.  “Has Colin been living here a long time?”

“I suppose it’s eight years at least,” she said. “He’s a biochemist, he came here in his first year, and he’s been here ever since. I’ve seen Colin through his first degree, and his PhD, and now he’s a postdoc. Doesn’t time fly?”

“Has he been involved in musical theatre all that time?” asked Sherlock, “I notice from the posters that he’s in the King’s Gilbert and Sullivan society, and their musical theatre society.“

“Yes, he’s done all sorts of things, leading roles a lot of the time, though he doesn’t have so much opportunity for that now, he’s so busy. I’ve been along to some of his shows, he always encourages me to buy tickets. I’ve seen _Kiss me Kate_ , and _West Side Story_ , and _The Gondoliers_ , he was very good in that. I can’t remember them all.”

“Is he a Londoner?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I suppose he almost is by now, but he’s from Manchester originally. Rosie now, is from Surrey, she’s a suburbanite like myself. Do you want to see her room as well? Only it’s probably fairly messy.”

“That would be a help,” I said.

Rosie’s room was smaller, and had about twice as much stuff in, though rather fewer books.  Her posters, nicely hung with picture hooks, were of pre-Raphaelite girls (which went with the shampoo theme) and dark young men with intense stares and messy hair. I felt I ought to know who they were, but I was quite glad I didn’t. Sherlock picked his way to the window, through drifts of file paper and fluffy sweaters, and took a few more shots.

“What’s Rosie studying?” I asked. “And how long has she been here?”

“She’s doing a degree in, it’s not theology, but something about religion. Oh, I remember: Religion in the Contemporary World. She’s in her second year. I asked her about Islam once, but she only seemed to have done stuff about the seventh century. She’s...I don’t think she’s a very good student.”

“I think we’ve got everything we need now on this floor,” Sherlock said, “Thank you very much, Ms Caithness. Oh, but there is one thing more.”

“What’s that?”

“You said your students live up here, but there’s an identical lock on the door of one of the bedrooms on the first floor you showed us. Do you normally have three lodgers living here, rather than two?”

There was a wariness about Martha Caithness now that made me instantly alert. “I...I have quite often in the past, but I don’t have anyone living there at the moment.”

“Can you tell us about the last person who was living there?” said Sherlock softly.

“Her name was, is, Javina Richardson,” she replied slowly.

“And she’s moved out mid-term? Or is she not a student?”

“I, I had to ask her to leave. She, I don’t have many rules for my lodgers, but I do ask them to be considerate after 11 pm, and she would have music on late at night.”

“Where is she studying, and what?”

“She’s not actually a student anymore.” I could tell we were getting to the heart of the matter now. Sherlock said nothing, just waited. I did too. With enough silence, some witnesses will tell you anything.

“She’s an ex-student,” said Ms Caithness at last, very quietly. “She, she’s American. She was over here twelve years ago, did a master’s in international relations. And then she came back, she’s working for Amnesty International over here, quite an important role.”

“And she is, was, your partner.”

“We had split up before she came to stay here, but like I said, it was amicable. She was having a terrible time with her landlord in Bromley, I said she could come here for a little while. Though maybe he had a point after all. She...it was just difficult, she didn’t really fit in, didn’t always behave...appropriately. I had to ask her to leave, find somewhere else.”

“How long was she here for?” Sherlock asked.

“She moved in in February, I think, of this year. No, March maybe. And she left in July, early July, a few weeks after term ended.”

“And you first had contact with Angela when?”

“Early in March.”

“Before or after Javina moved in?”

“Just after. Mr Holmes, I’m sure Javina has nothing at all to do with this, but I...I really find it quite distressing to talk about her.” She looked really uncomfortable now, and I hoped Sherlock wasn’t going to ask anything too embarrassing. To my relief, he smiled gently, and said:

“I think we’ve got all the information I need now.”

“You can solve this case?” she said eagerly, “You can find Angela?”

“I hope that I will be able to get some definite information. But I’m afraid,” he said, “that I don’t think you’re likely to see her again. I think you should forget all about Angela Hosma, since she’s vanished from your life.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to forget my angel easily,” said Martha Caithness, sighing.

***

I’d been thinking a bit about what Sherlock had said about views from upstairs windows, so when we got outside, I said:

“Should we be checking whether there any bus routes nearby?”

“You’ll find the tube entirely adequate,” said Sherlock.

“No,” I said, “you mentioned looking in windows. I remember reading this detective story once. A girl was travelling on a double-decker bus, looked into the window of some posh house, and then made up a story about how she’d been imprisoned by the woman living there. Nearly got away with it.”

“And how is that remotely relevant to the case of Angela Hosma?” Sherlock asked. There was an embarrassing silence. (Well, embarrassing for me).

“I, but you said the view was important,” I protested eventually.

“It’s always useful to tell people what you’re looking for, then they don’t pay so much attention to what you’re looking at,” said Sherlock. “Well, I don’t think I need you here anymore.”

“What should I do?” I asked, expecting Amnesty International , libraries, King’s College, or, if I was really lucky, Indonesian restaurants.

“Go home. As I said, I don’t currently need you,” said Sherlock and walked off.

I sighed, and dug out the A-Z I always carry nowadays (you never know how it might come in handy), and tried to work out how to get back to Baker Street by public transport.

***

 A couple of hours later at 221B, when I had just made a cup of tea, Sherlock arrived back and promptly annexed it. Since he then ate all the biscuits in the biscuit jar, I concluded that the intellectual part of the case was over, and that he was probably gearing himself up to rush around. I made myself another cup of tea, retrieved a custard cream from my secret stash (I’m not revealing the location, since Sherlock may read this), and sat down and waited for him to stop giving himself a sugar high, and tell me something.

“I have all the data I require now,” Sherlock eventually said. “Ms Caithness’ case itself is straightforward: there are parallels in my files from Andover, The Hague and Gaborone, but there were a few details I needed in order to settle the matter.”

“How have you worked it out so quickly?” I asked.

“John, you know-“

"Your methods. yes, this bit of it I do. It amazes me that anyone under 30 ever gets away with any crime nowadays. Facebook, I suppose?"

"Two out of three of them. From which I've learnt the key pieces of information that Colin Gordon's current starring role is as Cyril in 'Princess Ida', and that Rosie Scott is a huge fan of Stephanie Meyer. Here are some pictures.” He handed me his phone. My phone. Our phone, I suppose now.

Gordon was a thin-faced, rather wimpy looking blond. Rosie had long brown hair, and was trying to look droopy and romantic, rather hampered by the fact that her natural look, at parties at least, was clearly round and jolly.

“Javina Richardson, in contrast, isn't on Facebook, but is on LinkedIn. I can't find any photos of her on the net, but given that fact that her first degree was from North Carolina Central University, and Ms Caithness' embarrassment about discussing her, I can probably manage without one. In fact, I think we can say the situation's pretty well cleared up by now. Don't you agree?”

I didn't bother saying that if he let me google ‘Princess Ida’ and North Carolina Central University it would help, because I knew it wouldn't.

“What's the next step then?” I asked instead.

“We go and confront the guilty party.”

[Part 4](http://marysutherland.livejournal.com/13074.html)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has solved the problem of Martha Caithness' missing fiancee, so they're off for a confrontation.

Once I’d worked out where we going, I knew who was responsible, though I still wasn’t sure how or why. (No, I’m not going to tell you yet, that would ruin the suspense. And if you have worked out the solution already, could you try not to look so smug, some of us just have tiny little minds).

“You should perhaps know in advance,” Sherlock said to me, as we were about to enter the building. “It's just possible that this encounter might turn violent.”

“It’s handy how you tell me that once it’s too late for me to bring a gun,” I commented. “Should we be infinitely tedious at this point and tell someone, like the police, what we’re about to do? Even wait for them to get here, so we don’t get taken hostage first. So _I_ don’t get taken hostage first?”

“Not that kind of violence,” said Sherlock. “I need you to stop me if I am tempted to beat the hell out of this nasty-minded creep.”

***

We went into the lab and made our way cautiously past thickets of equipment, till we found our target.

“Good afternoon, Mr Gordon,” said Sherlock, “or should I call you Angela?” I was hastily checking if there were any syringes within Gordon’s not too long reach. Or toxic chemicals. Fortunately, I didn’t think he was the sort who’d try to glass you with a smashed piece of tubing. (Someone tried to do that to Sherlock once, though it wasn’t anything to do with a case).

“I don't know what you mean,” Gordon whined, glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

 “It was a nasty trick. Ms Caithness treated you with great kindness for years, and you repaid her like that? Just to save yourself some money?”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” I said, behind the plot as usual.

“Colin here had found a really cushy number. Decent accommodation at a ridiculously low rent, because Martha Caithness wasn't really interested in money. And no chance of her circumstances changing any time soon, or so you thought. But then she met Javina, came out, you started to get worried, didn’t you? Javina might not have lasted long initially, but she was back in the house again, and suppose Ms Caithness got into a serious relationship with her or someone else? Someone who might be more concerned about money, might want to increase the rent. Even worse, someone who might want to move into the house, have you move out.”

“She was a millionaire, just because of that bloody house,” Gordon said. “And I couldn't afford so much as a grotty studio flat. It wasn't fair.”

“What you did certainly wasn't fair. You are a cruel and selfish and heartless man, you know,” said Sherlock, with the tone of effortless moral superiority that only a really high-functioning sociopath can bring to bear. (OK, he’s perhaps not heartless, but as for the rest...). “You spotted her looking at that book forum a while ago, decided to get in touch with her. Were you just trying to encourage her to stay in and talk, at first, not go out where she might meet someone? But it didn't stay like that, did it?”

"It was only a joke at first," Colin groaned. “She said something once about scientists not knowing anything about literature, and I wanted to show her she was wrong.”

“You were going to make sure she didn't meet anyone else, she was going to meet you. But as you got in deeper, you realised you couldn't keep it up forever. You're a good actor, you've played drag parts before now, but sooner or later your game was going to be revealed, despite your determination to keep your clothes on. So you planned to disappear, leave her waiting for you, worrying about you. You hoped she might wait around for years, thinking of Angela, worrying about her. That was wicked, Mr Gordon.”

“It wasn't like that,” he protested.

“Oh, yes, it was. I've got a riding crop at home, I use it for beating corpses sometimes. I'd quite like to find out its effect on living flesh right now.”

“Sherlock,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. (In an ‘I am trying to restrain this dangerous lunatic from attacking a suspect‘ way, not for any other reason). Gordon looked like he was about to faint, but he was still managing a sneer.

“You can't prove it,” he said. “The e-mails were from her IP address, you've got no proof she didn't invent Angela herself.”

“The viragos in your room are a giveaway,” said Sherlock. Colin, at least, understood that statement, and sagged even more.

“I didn't get any money from it, it's not illegal to pretend to be someone else,” he said, back to whining again. “You can't prosecute me. Martha wouldn't want you to go to the police, anyhow.”

“Perhaps not, but I think KCL might take a very dim view of what you did. Possibly sexual harassment charges, certainly bullying treatment of a fellow member of staff. Even if the charges couldn't be proved, your reputation would never recover, and deservedly so.”

“I, I, it was just a joke, it got out of hand!” It’s always odd how people who routinely plan out a complete three year programme of scientific research can suddenly claim that they couldn’t possibly foresee the results of their own actions.

“Fortunately for you,” said Sherlock, “I think this is best kept in the dark. If you do three things in the next week, I will let the matter lie.”

“What are they?”

“Firstly, Angela will write to Ms Caithness. Say she's gone off with a man she's just met, realised the lesbianism was just a phase. Secondly, you will move out of ‘Viewfield’.”

“I can't find anywhere else to go in a week!”

“That's your problem. If you're still in there in seven days time, I will take further steps.”

“OK, I'll go. What's the third thing?”

“You will also offer to repaint the bedroom, or have it repainted at your expense, given the damage you've caused to the walls by your posters. Whatever Ms Caithness says, you will ensure that you do that. Do you understand all that, or would you rather I talked to King's?”

“I'll do it,” Gordon said sulkily.  

“Make sure you do,” said Sherlock. He motioned to me to go, and then turned back to the figure slumped by his bench. “By the way, there are three glaring errors in your latest preprint, it’s no wonder you’re such a hopeless criminal. Good afternoon, Mr Gordon.”

***

“How on earth did you work that one out?” I asked, when we’d got back to the flat. Sherlock had thrown himself on the couch, and was now lying there, clearly ready to grant me an audience.

“Angela Hosma was obviously a fake, as you spotted yourself. Refusing to give any details of herself, meeting only in public places. Not commenting on the service in cafes, even though she was supposed to be a waitress. And regularly using the internet on Friday evenings, hardly likely, since she'd be at her busiest then. Why would someone pretend to be interested in a relationship with Ms Caithness? It was taken too far to be a practical joke, even a cruel one, and not far enough if it was really someone wanting revenge.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course you’re right, you always are. Almost always.”

“The obvious other motive was money, so I followed the trail of that. No sign of Angela asking for cash or expensive presents, the only real asset is the house, but she disappeared before any attempt on that. Therefore, the aim isn't to get money, but to keep it. To keep the house, which might be endangered if Ms Caithness got into a relationship. There are no relatives on the scene, she's an only child, no-one obvious who might have been told about her coming out. But there are several students in her house, living at extremely reasonable rents, and with considerable indulgence, she's a kindly woman. They would know the IP address of her computer, probably had had e-mails from her. And they might well have heard about or seen the book forum. It would also explain why Angela didn't want to come to ‘Viewfield’.”

“OK, that sounds plausible. But why decide it was Colin, rather than Rosie or Javina?”

“Think about what we were told about Angela.”

“Tall, Indonesian, wears a headscarf, dark eyes. Colin's a short, blue-eyed blond.”

“Superficial details. Colin's around 5 foot 6, shortish for a man, tall for a woman, especially an Asian one. Contact lenses, slightly darkened skin would be effective disguises. His bone structure may not be quite right, but it's unlikely someone without expertise would notice. And the headscarf is very handy in one way, it means his Adam's apple is concealed. He's been there the longest, gets indulged the most. He's also currently playing a role in which a man disguises himself as a woman in order to infiltrate a women's college.”

“But why not one of the others?” I said. “Rosie.. oh, the photos suggest that she’s not tall enough.”

“Confirmed by the fact that she didn't have any books on the top shelf of the bookcase in her room.”

“But what's Stephanie Meyer got to do with it?” I asked. That was who the bloke in the posters had been, wasn’t it? Robert Patterson, or whatever his name was.

“If Rosie's the kind of woman sentimentally pining after romantic vampires, she's unlikely to have either the brains or the heartlessness to romance a middle-aged librarian to save on the rent,” Sherlock replied.

“Fair enough. But Javina surely has a double motive?” I said. “She’s Martha Caithness’ ex, and she was kicked out of the house.”

“As I said, the pattern doesn't fit with jealousy. And Javina had been Ms Caithness's lover, it would be far harder for her to fool her into thinking she was another person, she'd know the way she moved, kissed. The American accent would be hard to disguise, as well. Besides, even though we don't have a photo of Javina, we can hazard a guess at what she looks like.”

“How on earth?” I asked.

“From her name, her first university and Ms Caithness' refusal to discuss her. North Carolina Central University is a historically black college, and Javina's an African-American name. Ms Caithness was embarrassed to admit that she'd broken up with, and then evicted a black woman, feared we might consider her to be a racist. It's a lot harder to lighten skin than it is to darken it, makes it unlikely Javina’s our criminal.”

“It's still not conclusive that it's Colin rather than one of the others,” I said, because I thought as might as well get his complete scorn for my intellect over all in one go.

“Ah, but there's more,” Sherlock said, staring into space again.

“You said something about viragos, didn't you? What on earth was that about?”

“Do you still have the photos you took of Gordon's room? Pull up the one of his bookcases. Do you see anything?”

I got my laptop out, and dug out the relevant photo. And looked at it, and looked at it. And admitted defeat.

“Sherlock,” I said, “we were in there for 30 seconds, not even you could have read the titles of all of the books, and the photo doesn't give that much detail.”

“Look at the bottom left corner, one shelf up,” Sherlock said, flapping his arm vaguely. “Most of the books are haphazard, aren't they? But there's a small block of paperbacks there that all have the same dark green covers.”

“And?”

“Very distinctive, it's the design they used to use for all the Virago Modern Classics. They've changed them now, but Colin's a cheapskate, bought the books he was going to discuss with Ms Caithness second-hand. A male biochemist reading feminist classics, not that likely otherwise. And the previous picture, the one with the posters on the wall. Spot anything significant in the titles?”

I clicked back, and squinting, started to read them out:

“ _Kiss me Kate_ , _Pal Joey_ , _The King and I_ -”

“Set in Thailand, and I suspect the source of the black wig. I think it was the combination of having played an Asian character in that, maybe a mental association of Thailand with lady-boys, and Javina that put the idea of Angela into Colin's head. Martha Caithness liked exotic women, did she? Here was one, and she needed looking after. The relocation to Indonesia gave him a supposed religious background that allowed him to avoid too much physical contact.”

“It was terribly risky,” I said.

“He's an actor, a tenor, he likes being able to do the things, hold the notes, that no-one else can manage. And Ms Caithness wanted to believe in her angel, and he knew enough about her after years of living in her house to know how to please her.”

“That's incredible,” I said. “It's just unbelievable. Horrible as well. I mean what he did to that poor woman.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, closing his eyes. “Well, he has seven days to put things right, at least partially.”

***

“I’ve had a couple of e-mails from Martha Caithness,” Sherlock suddenly remarked to me at lunchtime (well, my lunchtime) on Monday, after he’d finished his experiment of stamping on ballpoint pens with wellingtons on. “Angela's abandonment of her has been announced, and when I checked back, Colin Gordon has now moved out, thank God. I suppose that means Ms Caithness now has two spare rooms for rent. Do you think there's any chance that Harry might be able to suggest a lodger, or even a potential soulmate, to go there, keep an eye on her? If anyone's likely to know harmless, romantic, bookish women, it's your sister.”

“You think-“

“She's rather an exploitable woman, Martha Caithness. It might be better if predatory elements were kept away from her.” I wondered if it was Harry’s influence that had lead to this sudden concern for the wellbeing of hapless lesbians.

“You could tell her what had happened, that might put her on her guard,” I said. “And surely it's wrong not to explain the full details.”

“There is an old Persian saying: 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.'”

“No, there isn't,” I replied. “At least I bet there isn't. That sounds the type of cod stuff that Victorian writers make up. Orientalism, Harry would call it.” (It was a good reply, I think. Some of it I even thought to say at the time).

“You're probably right, but there's a new English saying, or at least there ought to be: 'When a middle-aged woman has recently come out, it does no good for her sexual identity to find out she's been engaged to a man in drag.' Find me my bow, will you, John? I think some Sibelius would be appropriate now.”


End file.
